Survival of the Foot Test

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Today’s musings are trivial and superficial and I make no apologies for this. Forget the meaning of life and why art is critical to mankind. All I can think about today is that I went from 9am to 10pm in extremely high heels.

I am unashamedly proud of this. There was a time in my life (a few decades back) when I would have seen thirteen hours strutting on 4″ supports as perfectly normal. In those days, working in a man’s world, those heels counted for something. At 5′ 5″, rising to the dizzy heights of 5′ 9″ meant being able to look a fair few colleagues and clients straight in the eye. Not to be sniffed at.

But the intervening years of making art have completely eliminated any need for additional height or power heels. My feet have been locked on a horizontal plane for longer than I care to remember.

Spending my days in boots or trainers did not however mean that I didn’t look longingly at killer heels from time to time, even if I had no use for them. The plain fact is, I adore nice shoes. Always have done. Always will do. There is just something about the architectural qualities and beautiful form of a well-made and well-designed shoe that cuts straight through to my aesthetic and craft sensibilities.

And so over the years I have occasionally indulged in some beautiful pair or other. The only problem then was forgetting how to walk in them.

Until recently.

I became seized by a desire to once again trip around town elegantly in impossible heels. A few weeks ago, I had a practice run. Well, more of a practice stagger. I could cope on the flat and uphill, but any downward slope posed an impossible strain on my shins, and I was forced to tiptoe forwards in a geisha-like manner.

I persevered. Tried other shoes lurking under the bed from twenty years ago. I would not be beaten.

And today, miraculously, it just happened. It clicked. I danced around all day in impossible heels. I have rediscovered the effervescent, trivial and superficial side of my personality.

It feels wonderful.

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